Carpet Smurf-aggedon, Cali-Toilet-violations and the heavy-weight lifting champion of Venice Beach

 "I'm not kidding Dad, Mum's gone bananas this time..." says Declan.  Torn half between comedy and fear.  

"So what exactly happened?" I ask again.

"I mean, I don't quite know dad, but the carpet is now painted blue..." he says, trying to contain the laughter.

"Ok - well - I'm sure it will wash out," I suggest.

"It won't...mum already poured bleach on it..."

Ooof, I think.  I know the carpet salesman said you could  pour bleach on it.  He didn't exactly let on what the effect would be.

"And the worse things is dad...she hasn't even noticed that the dog is painted blue as well!"

"Shit!  The dog is blue?" Bloody typical, I think.

Days later when I return from my work trip.  I survey the damage (which Caitlin had cunningly hidden underneath the porch door matt).

"Woooooahhhhh..." I say.  I definitely wasn't expecting it to be that bad.  But it is exactly as Dec had pointed out. 

It looks like someone detonated a bomb in a Smurf village. Carnage. Blue streaks across a size-able patch of the living room.

"Look," I tell the kids.  The important thing is no-one is hurt.  Everyone has their health.  It's just a bit of carpet I say.  I am secretly quite relieved.  Now I feel less rubbish about the whopping great holes around the fire place where I accidentally over-stoked the fire beyond maximum capacity and sprayed hot coals onto our apparently indestructible carpet.

Turns out - hot coal tends to melt cheap carpet.  Soon we shall have a carpet of very many technicolour wonders (just like Joseph's Dreamcoat) as we stitch together and cover up the floor in various random rugs and door matts.  

Daisy seems none to bothered by her brush with the blue paint and there is a blanket-wide denial of any involvement with this.  Turns out Daisy thought the paint could be food and investigated too heartily.

Lately though I have mainly been living my alternative best version of me lifestyle in California with my sister and Fintan along for the ride.  And what a ride!  We packed more action into a week than The Fast and the Furious cross-bred with Mission Impossible. 

I learnt many things about myself.  Some of them deeply prophetic.  For instance...

"Yo Tom - you really need to check out our new Japanese toilet - it's amazing," sis tells me. 

"Hmmm...is that ok?" I mean ensuite toilets are quite personal items.

"Yeah - go for it Tom," 

So I Go for it. "Oooooo...."I say.  A heated seat.  This is the weirdest yet greatest thing my butt has experienced in a long while. 

Things go along as expected until I take a look at the control panel.  Yes - a flipping control panel for a toilet.  This truly is an experience!  I randomly press an icon which seems to show an upside down rainshower.  The next few seconds are indelibly etched into my mind palace of unusual new sensations.

At first I feel intense violation.  I am being violated! I think, as a rapid fire wall of warm water fires up my butt.  Reeeelaxxxx I tell myself.  And after a stern talking to, I start to embrace the warm fuzziness.  I briefly contemplate why exactly butt-holes can feel spice? And then start to panic.  I've been there for about 2 minutes and the water cannon is still on rapid fire speed.  I give it a little longer and start to worry about the water drought in California.  I am using up all their precious resources!  

I'm getting anxious now.  If I get up - will it fire straight up all over the bathroom?  I cannot risk it.  So I press another button.  The water does not let up.  

Shit - what do I do?  I am in fear now.  This is beyond awkward. 

For fear of actually dying on the crapper, I make my bold move and raise my butt-cheeks an inch.  The water column subsides.  I raise it another inch. It stops.  Dear God.  Relief courses over me.  My arse cheeks are wrinkled with their over-bathing.  I have the arse skin texture of a ninety year old man!

 

Later that week, after a full recovery, we head out to Malibu beach. We hire bikes and cycle along the famous boardwalk on the beach.  Past a gang of young hipsters in actual legwarmers and spandex (no shit!) roller dancing to classic showtunes from a massive boombox; past a man on an e-skateboard holding his pet micro-dog in his hands; past cool kids on their e-bikes with a strong waft of weed circling over them as they cruise by; past lithe fit joggers in skinny tops and on towards Venice beach and the iconic outdoor gym and basketball court. 

As it happens, there's a crazy lady singing Korean love songs (or possibly she's a Seventh day Adventist trying to convert us - we are not too sure) right by the basketball court.  This is not what we see in the movies.  

Fintan is keen to head towards the famous GOLDs gym - home of multiple Mister Universe and Olympia's.  And where ARNIE works out.  He will surely recognise a fellow muscle-man!

We cycle up and head on in.  The place smells like muscle and my hockey socks after a particularly intense hockey match - and if I forgot to wash them for ten days.  I am mainly mesmerised by the giant golden Dumbells ahead of us as we pay for a one day pass.

"Holy crap - they look heavy," I say.

"They're the heaviest Dumbells in the world dad," Fintan tells me.

Being helluva tough - I think this is merely a challenge. I try lifting with all my might.  My eyeballs threaten to pop out my head a bit like the bad guys in Raiders of the Lost Ark at the end. And still - it doesn't even budge a micro millimetre.

"Dang - that is heavy."

"It's the world's heaviest Dumbell.  Of course it is.  150 Kg! That's 330 pounds dad!"

Fintan then amazes me as he actually manages to lift one about a cm from the bench. 

"Don't lift it!" I yell out loud.  I am genuinely worried he might burst his entire body and explode.  But he has it. 

Fintan puts in a session whilst I sit on a comfy leather chair and watch a tonne of beef-cakes with biceps bigger than a small child lift crazy heavy weights.  At one point, She-Hulk actually sits in front of me.  She is awesome. And could surely bench me with her little finger.  I feel totally out of my league here as the stand-out "fat dad" who has accidentally wandered into an alien landscape. 

We cycle back to Malibu pier and eat Wetzel Pretzels and ride the Pier roller coaster - which is actually more exhilerating than it looked from the beach. 

Through-out the week - we have a total blast.  We hike deep into mountainous valleys (with names like Rattlesnake Canyon) and paddle in secret watering holes as blue sky and hundred degree sun beats down.  We see rellies in Montecito and have a really special afternoon and evening with them.  We sit and chill at a listening party in Ojai organised by Uncle Jon.  Which was truly special under the nightsky with acoustic Brazilian guitar and a mesmerising Columbian DJ set.  I mainly struggle with my inability to sit cross legged or quietely.  But love it all.  Just beautiful. 

Fintan eats his first Snow Cone, despite his Monsters Inc advice never to eat a yellow snow-cone.  We eat Taco's from a food truck and swing and hit in a baseball batting cage.  We eat buttered popcorn at the Ventura showing of Barbie (Ryan Gosling is so good as Ken) and swim in Sarah's pool only a matter of feet from the small but deadly Black Widow spider living happily by the pool steps and nurturing her small white sacs of babies.  

"Would it kill us if it bit us?" we ask.

"Hmmmm...maybe Melvin (the dog) but not us.  But it would hurt," says sis.

So we carry on chilling in the pool until I achieve full zen and become one with the inflatable avocado and fall asleep on it for at least an hour. 

Coming home, the jetlag is a shocker. Fintan is now officially living his new life as a vampire, based on his sleep patterns back home.

The holiday has given me time to reflect on all of the fun this year.

 Way back around April we enjoyed a magical mystery tour of Liverpool. Which was a total blast and ended with us in the Cavern sinking a few jars (Caitlin mainly fell into a boredom coma) and THEN at the Eurovision Song Contest Fan zones by Albert Docks.  The comedy highlight was security refusing to let us in with a back-pack even though it was searched and contained no bomb. Until we renegotiated with them and they agreed that if we took everything out of the bag and carried it in, then it was fine. 

So in we trudged, the whole family laden like pack mules with all our soft drinks, coats, packet of cards, mentos, packet of plasters etc.  Stepped a yard inside the fan zone and promptly put them back in the "illegal" bag. 

Coldplay at the Eithead blew us away. Whether you think you hate them or actually hate their music or not.  I defy you not to love their live show (unless you are a serial killer or death metal fan).  A truly uplifting blast of colour and joy. 

And the following week - we go mad for Madness at Delamere forest.  Declan and Fintan right at the front with all the Fez-headed chunky fifty year old dads reliving their long lost youth.  Another true nostalgic wonderful night. 

What's next - hopefully a bloody well deserved break.  But I will let you know!

Riding with my boyz... in the back of the Neon Pink Disney Carriage and Strictly Drunk Dance-off Magic

Many of you (when you have followers numbering less than ten but more than five - you can use the word Many with true authority) will be wondering...did Tom die? Where exactly did he go?  I've not seen him back at work since Covid.  This is awkward... 

As someone far more famouser than me once said "I am very much still alive!".  That was either Oscar Wilde, Beyonce or Leo Sayer. 

Quick recap.  The floppy haired Wurzel Gummidge impersonator who'd been moonlighting as PM is finally gone.  Liz Truss (Liz who?) managed to shag an already defunct economy within approximately 3 seconds of becoming the new PM, no-one can be bothered to die of Covid any longer because the entire country is officially on strike.  Dogs, Cats, Train drivers, Civil Servants, Nurses, Teachers, Ambulance drivers, even the aardvarks in Chester zoo are manning a blazing oil drum as we speak and protesting at the shitshow of a government.   I just remortgaged the house for a lump of coal and sold my children just so we could pay for some leccy.  There's a horrific war in Europe and we are currently 90 seconds to midnight thanks to the loon in charge of Russia. 

On the upside...  I'm a celebrity was pretty good this year.  

If I get back in my HG Wells time-machine and check my Iphone pictures I can just about remember that the Autumn highlight of 2021 was seeing the wider family along the Welsh borders near Haye-on-Wye.  We mainly learnt that Daisy nearly shits herself if she hears a shotgun go off.  This is not good when you are staying in a massive old house in the deepest Welsh countryside.  The Welsh tend to fire warning shots at rabbits and Englishmen every few minutes.

Sis had booked a magical ancient old manor house which wouldn't have looked out of place in a Bronte Novel.  Which meant, I was rather disappointed when the wife failed to come down for supper, at Evensong, in her low level boddice-popping outfit.  And she was pretty gutted I hadn't transmogrified into Colin Firth in tight leggings. 

Fintan and Dec played some classical sonatas and waltzes on the harpsicord whilst we danced around the main ballroom.  

I rode my first ever pommel horse indoors, whilst wearing an assortment of headwear.  It was great to chill with sis and enjoy meeting up at last.

Against all odds, we found ourselves in 2022 and vowed it would be better than the two previous years.  I can now report that it too was fairly shit - pockmarked with brief moments of joy before slipping back into total misery.  It made the Fields of the Nephilim gig I saw with Simon seem positively tree-huggingly upbeat. 

I fulfilled a twenty year New Year's resolution and finally visited Barcelona with the family.  

Yes - we arrived at the airport without face-masks and then landed in Spain and had to put them on (like the Covid bug has some sort of inbuilt super ability to respect international borders?).  

Gaudi blew us away.  His park, his bonkers wibbly wobbly houses and holy shit - that Cathedral. Genuinely, walking into the Sagrida Familia made me cry.  The shafts of coloured light blasting through the walls.  It felt like I'd walked into a giant version of the Mos Cantina on Mos Eisley built by a crazed acid-fuelled madman.  To think on such a scale...through time....and into history.  What a guy.  Getting flattened by a tram outside though...that's a real bummer.

Near the end of 2022.  We tick another item off the bucket list.   

The weekend before we set off for Blackpool there were headline stories basically alikening Blackpool to Beirut but with a worse drug problem and shitter buildings.  But there’s nothing that some penny arcades, bright lights, candy floss and shit-tonne of alcohol can’t hide.  Blackpool is basically the 90 year old great gran at the wedding with the pink lipstick smeared over her drooping face, the face powder slapped on so heavy to cover the cracks, wearing the see through mini-skirt whilst dancing on the table with a handful of wedding cake in one hand, a bottle of Aldi prosecco in the other and a cigarette dangling from her gob.  Just before she tries to snog the groom and then deck all the bridesmaids.

Our air b n B previously operated as some sort of hostel / knocking shop / slum circa 1958.  But we are all very excited.  

"Top of the Tower!!!!" I yell in excitement as we leave our house and walk through an alleyway littered with broken glass and crap.

"Kids - we are not to walk back through this alley later tonight," I warn them.  We all agree.

Walking down the windswept seafront.  You have to admire the beaten majesty of the place.  It must have been stunning in its heyday (back before tv was invented and Charlie Chaplin was still cutting edge).

A mile away, we spot the great Blackpool Tower.  It's genuinely thrilling. 

We trudge towards it.  An army of kids running ahead of us.  Beanie hats and wolf hat wrapped down around their ears against the arctic northern cold. Grown-ups plodding along behind.

And then we're there. We get in the lift and make our way to the  Blackpool Tower Ballroom.  Strange music that reminds me of the Ballroom scene in the Shining drifts towards us.

I open the door and am not prepared for the inside. We all gasp.  

This would be a Ballroom Dancers wet dream.  There are 70 year old men in sequins dragging other men in spangly tops.   There are young glamorous couples doing some fancy cha cha cha moves and twirling each other about like extras in Dirty Dancing.  And the building itself.  It's like finding a gleaming set of crown jewels buried in a sack of shit. 

We go to the bar and me and Steve order many pints. 

We head upstairs where Lucy and Sarah have found a good vantage to view the spectacle.  

"Look at them... is that a throuple?  I bet he's shagging both of them..." I suggest.

"Look at that guy.  He's amazing!" I say.  He is middle-aged, well built and wearing a classic Yorkshire flat cap and tweed waistcoat.  The epitome of coolness. 

"Noooo....." we all shout out from the balcony. Spitting out our beer. He walks off the famous Strictly dance-floor, feels for a table and then grabs his white walking stick.  I feel truly humbled.

After a few more trips to the bar.  Us grown up parents decide to surprise the kids.  

"I'm well nervous.  This is scarier than I thought..." I say.

"I can't do it..." says Sarah.

"Come on!  It'll be fine..." but I feel like the wallflower hovering at the side of the dancefloor at the school disco all over again.  All the other couples look semi-pro.  Some are even just semi everything judging by their tight lycra trousers. 

We shut our eyes and, rather like Nemo's dad as he joins the Turtles on the Pacific Jet stream, we find ourselves joining the throng, whooshing along and waltzing our way counter clockwise as a man who has recently magically appeared from within the bowels of the Tower on a giant Wurlitzer serenades us with a sprightly waltz.

The kids are half gob-smacked and half beyond embarrassment as we roll off the floor.  The floor itself is surprisingly springy.  Like a running track cross bred with a muted trampoline. 

"Wooooo!" we are exilerated as we leave the floor.  Taking our bows from the couples having their afternoon tea in fits of giggles at our complete ineptitude. 

The day gets better.

"Declan...get in the carriage..." I demand.

"No dad...no..." says Declan.

"I want to get in Dad - can I?" says Caitlin. Fintan and his mate Oliver look on with casual disinterest.

"But why not Dec?"

"Because it's a giant pink Disney carriage being drawn by a horse down the main road.  It's embarrasing dad!"

"Come on...it'll be fun.  When else are you gonna get the chance to sit in a horse drawn carriage like a Princess?" I suggest.

"Exactly.  A princess!" he says.

We fail to negotiate with the Horse owner and get in anyway.  By the end of the trip down the road and past all the Illuminations....we are all converted.  Giant neon pink horse drawn carriage is the way I shall travel everywhere from now on.  Period. 

We wander into the arcades and blow at least two thousand pounds in 2 pence pieces before heading down the pier for officially the worst kids entertainment show ever (bonus being they served beer).

To top if off, we head to the Pepsi Max Big One and the rollercoasters with sore heads and a shabby three mile walk on the Sunday. 

At one point I scream the F word repeatedly for two minutes as this ride loops me up, down, sideways and inside out.  I feel bad.  Frankie is besides me and only young.  She appears totally unphased and demands we go on it instantly again. 

We rock up to the last big ride of the day.  We watch it whizz by and the boys and me stop in our tracks.

"Shall we give it a miss guys?" I mean - the Wallace and Grommit ride is looking a little more my style right now.  But no - Frankie is insistent. 

I genuinely feel that I might die of fear.  It's not like I'm young these days.  Last time I was here was with Nottingham Uni when I was 21.  And my mate Mally thought he was gonna die then.  How I laughed at his displeasure.  And lo - here I am in his shoes. 

I survive.  We drive home and I know that I have a new found love for this shit-tip. This great city.  Blackpool.

Lockdown 3.0 - when I learn I am officially both "Fat and Stupid", make some poor "hair" decisions and Pika-Chutato is Born!

 "Hey guys...I have some exciting news!" I say over dinner.  

I have cooked us some full meat mince and some pretend mince (Quorn) to see if they spot the difference and wedged them into taco's with fresh guacamole, a home-made salsa and some tabasco on the side.

"Or do you?" says Caitlin. 

"In actual fact - for once - I do!" I say whole heartedly. "For I have received a call from the Doctors and..."

"You're going to die?" says Caitlin.

"No,"

"You're stupid?" she says.

"No - your Dad is going to get his covid jab on Monday!" I feel quite emotional.  You see the little chart on the tv and Bojo Gummidge or his minion Matt Hand-cock-n'balls-it-up telling us the jab will save us.  But you don't believe it will ever amount to anything other than a pretty little line on an excel chart in Downing street.  But no!  It's actually happening to me - now!  So this is good news.

"But dad," - says Fintan. "I thought they were only doing band 6 now and the over 70s?"

"Yeah - you are younger than mum. So why are you getting it before her?" says Declan, weighing in.

This is a great point and one I like to make very often - at least each Sunday before dinner when Frank Sinatra sings "You make me feel so young...because you are so old and dumb..." (Note - this is only because "Young" scans so well with "dumb" - Sarah is not dumb, except for the bit where she married me!).

"Well apparently kids.  I am in group 6 - I asked if it was a mistake but apparently it is not."

We google the list of reasons for being in group 6 and read them out:

"Have you ever had an organ transplant dad?" they ask.

"Nope - just the brain...nothing important..."

"A neurological condition? Arthritis? Lupus? Dementia..."

"a BMI above 40?...mentally ill....chest complaint?"

"Hmmmm...." I say and we calculate that I would need to weigh about 30 stone to hit that sort of BMI.

"So dad...we think it's cos you are fat and stupid...that's why you are getting it..." and Caitlin and the boys burst into hysterics.

I call a friend who is in the NHS and she explains there is a fancy algorithm identifying fat stupid middle aged dads through-out the country for just this occasion.  But I should take it, as cleverer people than me (basically two years olds plus) have spent alot of time on it.  I agree.

I have the jab and feel mildly euphoric afterwards in the Church car park.  I am being jabbed in St.Colomba's church hall where our children have had leaving parties for the end of their time at St Werburgh's and Christmas parties and disco's.  Opposite is the church where I've sat numb-bummed and singing along to nativities and celebrations.  It feels totally surreal seeing a masked up army of volunteers leading us through our Jab process.  We head in one door and come out via the fire exit - reborn and jabbed up.

Later I feel like total shit.  About 12 hours later in the dead of night, I am shaking and feverish and my head is banging.  I wake up the next day feeling like I drank twenty tequila slammers and lost a bar fight with Tyson Fury.  This is like the worst case of man flu ever.  I moan a bit and take a tonne of pain killers.  Luckily no-one really lets me operate a plane or a JCB, so I can ride it out behind my PC.  

I am better after 36 hours but milk it for as long as humanly possible.  My manly moans gain no traction with anyone in the family.  I am gutted. 

Earlier in the lockdown - the darkness is really starting to piss me off.  Lockdown with sunshine is one thing.  Lockdown in the freezing bloody cold and total darkness most of the time is a total pain in the arse.  I don't think Caitlin felt actual sunshine on her skin for about a month.  We all have a serious case of sun and fun deficiency! This is what it must be like to get stranded in pack ice on a ship on an Arctic voyage.  With no hope of rescue. Forever. Combined with homeschooling and 5 of us on the internet trying to make work calls, log in to live maths lessons, biology lessons etc - it has its challenges.  And when Captain Tom died - well that was just double shit. 

The family pass like ships in the night.  We leave our various dens once in a while for tea, coke, Jaffa cakes, pickled gherkins and beetroots (I recently had what can only be confused with pregnancy pangs for these food items during lockdown) to return once more to our workplace.  Tied to the bloody laptops.

Caitlin can at least jump up and down on the couch during her school day and employs this as a useful learning technique. 

The highlights are:

1. The night it snowed and we all went lockdown crazy, ran outside, kids in PJs and coats and had a massive snowball fight.  Obviously a socially distanced snowball fight involving no one at all except ourselves who live in a street like Diagon Alley in Harry Potter.  We were basically cloaked from all the usual muggles who never noticed the massive snowball fight outside. Guvner.  I believe a police force somewhere in the midlands actually tweeted a warning for throwing snowballs.  Snowballs! The only snowball that should be banned are the ones containing advocaat and gin.

2. Midway through February, my hair reaches "Peak Big" and goes beyond all hair tolerance limits that have been set for my thatch.  It is at this point that Sarah calms her nerves with a large glass of red and begins to attack the Einstein thatch.  I quickly become impatient and take over and totally ignore whatever Sarah is telling me.  I head to the mirror and begin to use the clippers myself.  

"Jesus - are you sure about this setting?" I ask as big lumps of my hair shred off onto the bathroom floor. 

"Did you not listen at all Tom! I remove the guard - it's on the default setting - one!" she shouts over to me. 

"Oh crap," I say, realising that I have done a Shaun the Sheep on one section of my head.  It does look somewhat bald. 

"Why didn't you tell me?!" I shout from the bathroom.  Shout communication is a highly recommended form of family communication. 

"I did you idiot!" she says. 

"Ooops....well - no-ones gonna see me so what does it matter?" I conclude and continue with the clipper settings moved up a notch.  It's quite difficult clippering in a mirror.  I struggle a fair bit and decide to leave a "fuller" aspect to my upper head area (these are very technical hairdressy terms - I will explain down the pub in real life at some point).  So now I have lost my 1980s Bon Jovi Mega Mullet and gained a bouffant blob.  Niiiiice.

3. My worst Covid habit:  I begin to wake the kids up each morning for their remote school lessons by calling their mobile phones.  Actual shouting does not work on kids.  They are immune to the voice pitch of all parents. However, they can be fooled by using an app or mobile technology.  Haaa - who's the fool now?!?! I still try an old school "Ahhh Zawinga" Lion King intro once in a while as I fling open the curtains...but my heart's just not in it!

4. We did go to the shops and pick up some sunflower seeds in March - so my main highlight has been watering the random seeds with Caitlin and wondering what the hell will grow in the summer.  I'll keep you posted - Life is pretty crazy in lockdown.  

5.  I also buy some Calor gas and feel like a proper dad when the guy hands me the actual keys to the Calor Gas Lock-up.  For a brief minute I take on board the unique responsibility placed in my hands.  Take out a new Calor gas bottle and add my own old one (by the way - there is a total shortage of gas bottles right now).  Then re-padlock the locker and return the key to the shop. If this was a zombie apocalypse would I have been so civil? Would he have been so trusting?  I try to explain this hypothetical conundrum to Caitlin but she is more interested in the pack of fruit pastilles I got her. 

6. We painted a potato to look like Pikacchu for World Book Day.  Is this a low or a high point or have we just embraced this new Covid reality?  Either way - Pikapotato hasn't spread any arms yet or rotted at all.  He's still chilling happily on the table tennis table waiting for a game I think...

Tee-Pee outdoor booze-up, Boba Fett Christmas Day Wasssupppp and the Dangers of "Covid Foot"

 Wow.  On a scale of 1 to a million  - 2020 sucked a full million.  Luckily I am sure we can rely on 2021 to kick Covid's butt and bring us back into the light.  I mean - how bad could it get?  Literally - if Aliens landed on the Whitehouse Lawn it wouldn't surprise me. Or anyone these days. 

As I write this - Trump has been impeached once more for being a complete tool.  Not sure his end game?  Total Civil War?  Zombie Armageddon?  Again - it wouldn't be overly odd if he peeled back his mottled orange skin to reveal some sort of giant semi-sentient turd beneath. This might explain alot. 

In the meantime - we have a man with the looks and intelligence of Wurzel Gummidge on a bad day in charge of the worst pandemic crisis since the Spanish Flu.  He probably means well - but you get the impression that Eton only gave him the life skills to slap other naked men on the bum with a well-aimed towel-flick after a game of rugger, to sire random kids with whichever poor cow of a woman seems to be in sniffing distance of him at the key moment when he is feeling randy and to scare small murmerations of starlings and a few ageing crows out of a recently planted arable field.  

So - on the basis that we are totally screwed  What good has happened recently? Here's my photo summary of the last few months:

1.  Boba Fett called me up on Christmas Day really pissed and we had a good chat.

2. We chased a dodgy Santa down the road in the back of a white van and danced to Last Christmas on his Santa Sound System without being legitimately Whammed - cos it was still November.  It was ace.  Cheered us all up. 

3. We had a mega table tennis Christmas disco-athon.

4. I hung out with a JCB but couldn't work out how to hotwire it. 

5. I met my workmates in a giant beer Tee-Pee (not to be confused with a giant She-Pee).  It had a massive fire in the middle but no one was dressed as Hiawatha.

6. We ate 12 donuts and met a glowing painted dog at the zoo

7. We hung out with John Lennon at the cavern - and were the only crowd there.

8. We didn't die.

Well - we paid a Christmas visit to the zoo and hung out with the lemurs.  They really are quite cool to see up close in their actual enclosure as you walk about amongst them.  We got to see the Chester Zoo lanterns at dusk.  Which, when you can't get a ticket, counts as a stroke of genius.  Pick a dull wintry day at the zoo, loiter in the bar drinking hot chocolate and then slowly wander past the glowing animals and attractions as you leave.  Certainly fooled Caitlin - who was absolutely delighted with it. 

As per the entire nation - apart from all the ones who totally ignored the government advice and are probably dead by now - we didn't see our loved ones.  Instead, even though it tore at our hearts, we had multiple zoom and Facetimes with relatives cocooned against Covid in their homes.  So much for Boris and his "Jolly" Christmas.  What a total incompetent buffoon. Complete Moomin.  We did get to see some friends at a socially accepted bucks fizz sipping distance, which was cool.

It is the first year that we were unable to eat all the cheese, pate and chocolates we had stocked up.  I think I went into auto-pilot and continued to buy as if Christmas was going ahead as normal. Despite actual reality.  For a start, I had bought a 14 person Turkey.  Which was ambitious when it only had to feed 2 adults and 3 kids. 

This may explain why I currently feel and look like a cave bear just prior to entering a particularly harsh hibernation during the last Ice age.  I've literally stocked up with enough reserves to keep me in a state of Torpor for at least 9 months judging by my pre-hibernation weight.  My hair is now well into full cave-man look.  I have once more lost sight of my ears and no longer worry about looking like a tramp because everyone else I meet looks exactly the same.  Scientists have recently revealed that primitive man may actually have survived deadly winters by adopting exactly the same method as me.  So I am only following my natural captain caveman instincts! 

Before  Christmas, the canal trust came along and pointed at trees and looked very wise and then prepped the land adjoining our garden with about a tonne of gravel.  In preparation for re-laying the cycle path along the canal.  This has made for some comedy moments of a morning.  It is not often that you trundle downstairs to work (approximately 17 steps from bed to study).  Stagger 9 steps into the kitchen to boil the kettle and stare up to see two random blokes in hi-vis and hard hats driving JCBs and massive ten tonne travel trucks past your kitchen window.  Daisy is literally having a sh*t fit barking herself into some sort of crazed excitement every time a JCB goes by.  It's bad enough when she sees a squirrel or God-forbid - a magpie.  This is even worse.  

When they leave - we inspect the set-up.  There is a canal boat with its very own crane and a mini-JCB in it.  There are two other JCB diggers and a portacabin.  I am so excited.  This is surely my chance to recreate that scene in the Jizlopi video, hotwire one of these yellow bad boys and steam down the street with the kids as I sing "I'm Tom and I'm 45 - my Dad's Bruce Lee - and I've just stolen a JCB!"  But it all looks very complicated to drive these things...so I settle for a JCB selfie instead (look - you must remember - we had just been in a November lockdown so you had to take your entertainment where you get it). 

Early in December - we find ourselves donning masks and heading for Liverpool so the kids can have their Piano Grading.  Of all the places we wanted to visit - Covid Scouse central in the middle of a pandemic was probably not one of them.  I love the city, but not when it is totally plague ridden!  But - I'd be blowed if we'd miss out  - we'd already paid for the exam in advance. 

So it was slightly surreal as we wandered past droves of newly released Christmas shoppers queuing (I kid you not) to get into Primark.  If only all those kids in Bangladesh working for one pence per day knew how their efforts were not in vain! Christmas be damned! 

We somehow found the Quaker Meeting house but I was pretty disappointed not to meet the bloke from the Quaker Oats box at the front door.  To pile on the pain - the building was modern and very fancy.  I had been hoping for a couple of puritans sitting on an upright turnip and quoting bits of bible.  Instead, I listened to the kids play some beautiful pieces on a grand piano whilst I read up all about the Quakers in Liverpool.  Bloody hell - they had a tough time - generally getting arrested or beaten up and totally killed for ages.  

After that - we pegged it over to Formby so Fintan could play his Badgers Hockey match for Chester.  We had intended to check out the red squirrels nearby but it was so damned cold - we mainly decided to freeze to death by the pitchside instead (well -me and Declan did whilst Caitlin and Sarah fell asleep in the nice cosy car!). 

Which leads us to today. January - apparently this is the day we're all most likely to top ourselves.  The Monday of doom.  All I know is that I am genuinely worried that Caitlin has forgotten what the outside looks like in lockdown 3.0.  And I am beyond sick of homeschooling and work combined.  I hated long division the first time - let alone the second!

I also know that as I lay beneath my computer desk today - waving the printer plug up through the gap - I nearly became a member of the castrati. 

"Sarah - can you grab the black plug - the black plug when you see it!" I tell her.  My head up against the top of the desk from below. 

"Have you got it?" I ask and wave my arm above my head and above the desk...grabbing not the desk - but in my youthful yet total innocence, my wife's buttocks.  

Instead of a kind hearted reciprocation or a loving "Ahhh Tom - you are so misguided but wonderful...," - she "accidentally" stood on my nuts.  I wonder if this is a new symptom of Sarah's post-covid recovery.  "Covid Foot".   If so - this is a very worrying development for me and all married men.  We are vulnerable...extremely. It must be! Definitely...maybe. 

What to do if your loved one gets Covid - and other top Dad tips...

 "Look Sarah, I don't want you to panic.  I want you to stay calm when we get the result - whatever it says."

I am pacing up and down the bedroom whilst Sarah struggles to get her breath and is gasping on the bed. 

Secretly I am thinking that she might just have this Covid thing after all.  I mean, she has been wiped out in bed for days and days now.  I point out she is lucky that I decided we really needed a tv bed in lockdown but she is too sick to throw anything at me.  Not even a tea cup.  I know this must be pretty serious then. 

I'm hoping she'll get the all clear and me and the kids can head off to hockey.  But the clock is ticking.  It's been 72 hours (so much for Boris' world bloody class test and trace system in under 24 hours!)  

We call the NHS track and trace number and speak to a really chilled out caring Scottish lady, who unfortunately can't give us any update whatsoever.  However, by a fluke of the known laws of the universe (which also govern buses travelling in packs of three and computers always appearing to be fixed the moment you actually get an IT guy to come and fix them) - an email pings through on Sarah's phone. 

We hang up and because Sarah is a). Totally sick and b) can't find her glasses. I grab the phone and manically scroll down. In my head, I repeat the mantra in a Dad's army Clive Dunn staccato voice "Don't panic! Don't panic!"

I need to keep the patient calm and not worry her.  Show no fear. 

I read the message.  "Shit Sarah. Shit.  You've got it..." I yelp.  Dang. I had hoped for a casual Sean Connery like air of calm.  Epic fail. 

I give Sarah a hug and head downstairs to update the kids. 

"Declan. I don't want you to worry.  But mummy has Covid.  But she's going to be ok." I say as solemnly but upbeat as I can.  This is a difficult act to pull off with my limited range. 

Declan looks me square in the face with fear in his eyes.  "But she kissed me! On the LIPS!"

Declan has now consigned himself to certain death or a fate worse than that. 

I give Fintan the bad news.  He actually takes his ear phones out to concentrate (which is appreciated) and then goes and checks on Sarah.

Caitlin is sitting on the couch watching minecraft - dogworld on You-tube, whilst simultaneously building a minecraft "Dalmation station" on her Nintendo.  This appears to be a mind-numbingly dull exercise.  But given the situation - I don't push it. 

"So Caitlin...Mummy is ok...but she has that bug," I say. 

She stops building her Dog palace and looks at me.  I am not sure whether she is going to burst into tears or what. 

"Does that mean we don't have to go to school or do any work and stay at home?" She asks hopefully.

"Yes.  It's back to Daddy homeschooling again!"  

Caitlin climbs up on to the top of the couch and leaps back down onto it. Face planting straight into the cushions.  She then proceeds to do the 80's dance "The Worm" for the next five minutes before then opting to run up and down repeatedly shouting "Wahoooo!".

"Bloody hell Caitlin - I can only imagine how happy you'll be if both your parents get it!"

We do our "Covid Time" and come out of our isolation after 14 plus days.  On my first foray outside walking the dog, I swear they have repainted all the lines on the road.  The markings are soo so bright.  I realise that most people would be more taken by the trees and the wildlife...but no - it's the tarmac that most amazes me. Which is a worry.  

We have a cracking weekend.  Spotting a Kingfisher on our canal again and I get to play a game of hockey at last.  The crowning moment of the weekend being able to play with Fintan and Declan on the same team as me as we huff and puff around the pitch and have a whale of a time. 

Later, we carve our pumpkins.  My god, their innards are disgusting.  It felt like slopping out a giant babies nappy full of liquid mulch - with the consistency of baby shit. Horrific.  How have I managed to avoid this for my entire life?   I carve the pumpkin that a 3 year old might carve and feel that this is at the height of my artistic prowess.  Even Bob Ross would disown me.  And that dude loves everything, he is so chilled (but possibly very dead by now).

I dress up as a Vampire, Caitlin becomes "Toothless" the Nightfury dragon from How to Train your Dragon. And I stick a witches hat on Sarah (although some might say - I stick Sarah's hat on her).  I'll pay for that later. 

Caitlin races up and down the road.  Swooping back and forth and shaking her tail and wings. Every time we see a house with decorations, we put sweets that we brought with us into her plastic pumpkin bucket. This is a very strange Covid Halloween indeed. 

On the way back down the road, I realise that we need more coconut milk for our Indonesian curry as the last tin of milk was so out of date that when I opened it up it came out in a big lolloping solid splat of rancid curdled coconut milk (I was intrigued whether the use by date actually meant use by...and the answer is - it Does!).  So  - not being a total moomin - I hand my black and red vampire cape to Sarah and Caitlin and head off to Aldi. 

I wander round Aldi and cannot find the bloody coconut tins anywhere.  In the end, I ask an Aldi worker who is stacking shelves. 

"Scuse me mate...where is the coconut milk?" 

He looks at me like there is something strange about me. And then points at the enormous crate of Coconut Milk tins next to him - stacked four foot high. This is rather embarrassing.  I worry he might think I fancy him or am lonely but decide to move on and grab 2 random cans.  Later, I realise his odd looks and the strange way the three girls outside stared at me and the way the check-out dude looked at me was probably more down to the red and pink blusher covering my eyes and face. I had forgotten the vampire make-up Sarah had applied.  I wonder if they thought I had fangs beneath my face mask too?

Release the inner cheese poet!!!! Exorcism complete...

Ok...I've gone full poet...and wrote this. Its got more cheesey sentiment than Beaches.  But here it is anyway.  I might also post me reading it out loud but I only read poetry when I am drunk or on holiday (the two are usually combined). So it could be a while.

Covid Wishes

These are the things I’d like to do – probably just the same as you

I’d like to hug friends once more

Instead of chatting 2 metres at the door

I’d like to kiss a friend on both cheeks

I haven’t done either for thirty weeks

I’d like to hear a group singing and dancing together

I haven’t seen that since it seems like forever

I’d like to see my mum, my dad

See what kinda Covid they’ve had

I’d like to see my sister in the Disunited states

Where Black Lives no longer mattered

And cops sealed their fates

I’d like to see a new city

Across a sea

To hear new words

To feel abundantly free

I want to climb a mountain if I like

Race down it on a mountain bike

I want to laugh in a theatre

Stand and Ovate?

I want the crush of the football crowd

The surge when we score

The bottle of beers flying

Across heads…and the roar!

The glorious wild screaming when the sport is won

The wonder of life of what can be done

I want to see the sun from a never seen shore

Cram it all in before

There is no more and my body is done

I’m not ready for Covid life on Hold

There’s so much more that has to be told…

 

 

The Tree kangaroo of enormous virility and the smell that nearly killed us

"So the conservatory roof needs a bit of a clean and the gutters," I say wisely to my dad.  From the levels of moss growing on it - it looks more like Bilbo Baggins' holiday home.

We have been busy chopping back trees and doing odd jobs ever since he arrived.  Jobs have been building up over this lockdown!

"You know there's a dead magpie on your conservatory roof," dad says.

I look out of Fintan's window.  So there is.   This is karma you black and white winged devil bastards!  Karma!  Sitting outside my window 4am every morning! Eating grubs off my roof!

I know the incident.  It was Thursday morning and there was an awful squawking match going on outside.  I assumed it was some young upstart crow (literally) gate-crashing their territory.  But I'd never heard screams like this.  Either way.  It has been peaceable ever since.  And now the reason is clear.  The young pretender is dead.

Sarah comes up to inspect the situation.

"You'll need a broom or something.  Bring it in the window..." and she wanders off.  Dead birds, dog shit on buggy wheels. Why do dad's always get these jobs?

I opt for a "gravity assisted magpie removal" operation and grab a big massive stick from the garden (I keep big massive sticks for these sorts of purposes).  A few are propping up Caitlin's impromptu indoor tent camp.

I stretch out the window and get a good launch angle beneath its body and flick.  For the final time, the magpie launches briefly into the air before landing in the gutter.  Up the ladder I go - and a few minutes later.  Job done.

In between these events - we enjoy walks with the dogs to the river and watch the sail boats back on the water at last. We walk through Christleton fields and seeing as it was the great July 4th Covid beer independence day.  We chanced our arm at the Ring of Bells.

We're the only people there (well - it is still very early on).  The kids run around the playground and we sup on our first cold pints.  It feels good.

Later in the week, cricket is back on the Friday night.  We're only allowed 8 in the nets - but it's great.  I decide it is best to coach the under 11 team tactically from 400 yards away at the bar.  This sort of high-level coaching is sure to be adopted by the ECB any day now.  I am quite put-out that neither Cook nor Stokes has given me a call for tips against the Windies.  We meet up with friends and it feels amazing to see them all again.  Even if we can't hug.

The sun is shining, the kids finish off the day with pizza, burgers and a tonne of ice cream and run 'til they drop on the fields.  Kicking a ball 'til their chests ache and their legs don't work.  I feel the same - but suspect this is probably just a minor legacy of these past few months of covid - or an imminent heart attack.

My mullet and 1870's sideburns are finally attacked by the barbers.  The place is pretty cool, with Breaking Bad movie posters and retro Star Wars nods.  But I know I'm getting old when the conversation moves into unchartered territory.

"Eyebrows sir?" he asks.

"Yes.  My eyebrows?"  I am scared now.  What is happening?  Is this a statement or a suggestion?

"Shall I shave them too?" he suggests - clippers in hand.

Now - I have been sporting the Liam Gallagher monobrow for many decades now.  So it's too late for me.  But what did he have in mind?  A couple of funky indents?  I may never know, unless I pluck up the courage next time.  First time I've worn a mask whilst getting a haircut (apart from the gimp mask at that party one time...).  I am well chuffed with my haircut though.  I am sleek and thinner and at least twenty years younger (Christ - the mirrors are great in the barbers these days!).

The kids have an outdoor jamming session with their mates on Saturday.  Their new song "Ventilator Escalator" is actually pretty decent.  I am well impressed.  A solid riff and topical lyrics.  I am still holding out on being their band manager but suspect I am gonna end up as a roadie. And not even the chief roadie.

Yesterday we head to the zoo and see Sarah and Chris and the kids there.  It's ace to see them.  We have a picnic in the Chinese Garden area near the Cedar Tree (does anyone remember that Cedar Tree tv soap from the 80s? - I loved that tree in the opening credits and always make a beeline for them wherever possible).

We wander over towards the Tree Kangaroo's.  They look pretty cute and cuddly up in the tree.  Big bulging eyes and all.

I point one of them out to Caitlin.

"Look!  Look Caitlin.  That one has babies in its pouch.  Look two of them," I proclaim sagely.

The babies are pretty big.  Huddled up there right up between its legs and chest.  "Ahhhh..."I say.  "So cute," I think.  I tell all the kids and point it out to Chris and the Sarah's.

"Shut up you eejit," says Sarah.

"Wha?"

"Is that her babies?" I ask the Zoo keeper who is ensuring we stay 2 metres apart and don't slobber all over the glass.

"No sir.  That kangaroo is a male..." he says.  Trying to keep a straight face.

"Wow!  That has gotta hurt.  That is not normal!" I say.

I wondered why the babies had no discernable features, such as eyes or legs or feet. It had cojones the size of bowling balls.  I swear! Totally out of proportion to the rest of it's body mass. An easy mistake to make.

After some more marsupial ball admiration, we moved on.  Although embarrassment can follow you for hours...like a bad smell. 

Which brings me to Sunday night.  We listen to Frank - "You make me feel so young" is playing as I carve up the chicken.  All is great in the world... except for that weird smell from the kitchen.

"Tom - do you smell it?" Sarah says. 

"Oh God yeah.  What is that smell?  Has the dog killed something?"

"There must be something rotting under the sink maybe?"

We then do what any exhausted parent would do and shut the kitchen door and forget about it...until today.

6am - I am awake.  It's light outside, but something evil has awakened my slumbering senses.

I open the kitchen door.  Daisy bounds out - happy as only a simple, possibly inbred canine can be.

The smell is horrific.  Declan wakes soon after.

"It smells like dead cat," literally. I last smelt that smell when our cat Juliet died under the floorboards in Beckenham.  She never did find Romeo.

"I'm gonna puke," I think to myself. 

Declan opens his bedroom door and points at the floor.  "It's there!  The smell!  It's there!!!" and he points at specific points like he is some sort of human smell locator.

Fintan leaves his room with a t-shirt around his mouth.  I kid you not.  This was a level 5 bio hazard incident. I consider calling Porton Down.

I open my mouth like a guppy fish and mouth breath (yep - I'm officially a mouth-breather) and enter the warzone. 

This is when I notice the "Vegetable soup" that Sarah started making last night and a light-bulb moment hits me like a rotting kipper.

"My god.  It's Sarah's vegetable soup in the slow cooker!" I remember her fatal last soup-related words.

"I'll just add some parsnips to the soup..."  And there you have it.  The odor of ammonia cat death mixed with acrid burnt rubber - all in one. Or as we all know it - "Mum's home made soup".  Now I also know where that bloody dead magpie ended up.

I do the only sensible thing and grab a can of Lynx Africa and begin fumigating the house, the way they fumigate the plane when you land in Dengue fever territory. 

"You can't cover a smell with a smell!" she will remind me.  But even she knows that sometimes you gotta do something or we'd all be dead by lunchtime.

I bin the whole sloppy dead mass outside and fear for the lives of those poor sweet blueflies.

We eat breakfast in the living room whilst I watch Match of the day 2 and What we do in the Shadows.  A dose of Vampire and footie always cheers me up of the morning.  And then I take Declan to school.  I am glad of the fresh air...